


Rain's gonna wash away what I believe in

by dazebras



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Affectionate Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale POV, Bigotry & Prejudice, Character Study, Crowley & Aziraphale's historical romps, Crowley (Good Omens) is Nanny Ashtoreth, Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Female Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Footnotes, Garden of Eden, Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Historical References, Illiad references, Introspection, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Noah's Ark, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rain, Reading Aloud, Religious Discussion, Robin Hood - Freeform, The Flood - Freeform, The Odyssey References, Vignette, Vulnerability, nanny ashtoreth - Freeform, the first rain, this is exactly as romantic as the source material so make of that what you will, yes those are separate concepts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 07:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20131474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazebras/pseuds/dazebras
Summary: A series of vignettes as the passage of time gradually erodes Aziraphale's predispositions.





	Rain's gonna wash away what I believe in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sosobriquet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/gifts).

> Title is from a bastardization of a Matchbox 20 lyric.
> 
> Special thanks to eris for helping me get through some tough patches on this.
> 
> J: You mentioned wanting this so -- surprise! It's not as angsty as I think you were initially hoping for but hopefully will still satisfy.

It started with a rainstorm. The first drops fell like gentle kisses of the divine. Like God’s tears. On the wall, Aziraphale lifted his wing and allowed the demon to shuffle under its canopy. It was only after he was tucked up against his side, smelling of sulphur, that Aziraphale realized that the rain wasn’t made of holy water after all.

The thought made him chuckle. When Crawly shot him a curious glance--so close, too close--he elaborated, “I thought it was going to melt you.”

“What? The,” here Crawly trailed off and flicked his wrist lazily to indicate the world outside the shelter of Aziraphale’s wings. “Well, I don’t suppose it has a name yet. Does it?”

“No, I don’t think so.” It didn’t, at least not one anybody had bothered to tell Aziraphale.

Crawly hunched into the feathers of his own sooty wings. He kicked at the growing puddles, splashing Aziraphale’s bare toes. After a moment, he stopped that nonsense and shrugged. “Looks safe enough. I can get out of your hair now.”

“Out of my--?” Aziraphale made an abortive gesture to his windblown curls. "Oh, you mean to leave. Yes, I suppose you best.”

He thought the demon might have looked disappointed at that. Aziraphale quickly discarded the sentiment. Surely Crawly was in a hurry to report his success back to his superiors.

“Right. Well, then. Be seeing you.”

“I certainly hope not!” Crawly may have been polite enough, not that Aziraphale had ever met any other Agents of Evil, but he was still a demon. And where demons went, trouble followed.

“‘Course. Ta.”

With that lackluster farewell, he sank into the ground. A bubble of brimstone left in the circumference of his exit nearly scorched Aziraphale’s feet. He danced back, and soon the rain put it out, leaving only a charred black ring.

Aziraphale stood on the wall and watched the storm recede alone.

* * *

Crawly didn’t stick around for the rain to start. He left before the first cloud appeared on the horizon. Aziraphale didn’t bother to track him down. The Flood was God’s will, and there was nothing a lone demon could do to stop it.

There were screams when the water got high enough to reach the roof tops. Noah and his sons had to push swimmers back into the waves as they try to scale on board the ark.

Aziraphale watched and wept and thought of mercy.

* * *

The flames weren’t in danger of the rain. For one, they had built a small, sloped roof high over the pyre. For another, the shower was only a mild, spitting mist. It clung in beads to the wiry beard of the man standing beside Aziraphale. The Greek was smaller than most of his fellows and a fair bit leaner. His eyes scanned the crowd and the beach beyond with calculated attention that gave Aziraphale the most confounding and aching sense of familiarity.

“Well, _daimon_?” A guiding spirit, a guardian of sorts. The word, however, was too close to another for Aziraphale’s comfort. “Will we lose now?”

Aziraphale clasped his hands in front of him to keep from fidgeting. Not that any of the other attendants could see him at the moment, but it was the principle of the thing. It was a somber affair, after all.

“I’m afraid I just don’t know. She didn’t tell me how this was meant to end.”

Odysseus, who mistakenly thought Aziraphale meant Athena, nodded with the wisdom of a man whose superiors also periodically neglected to give him all pertinent information. “I’m ready to go home.”

“Oh, I'm sure you’ll be home soon.” Aziraphale paused to wrestle the hood of his cloak into a position more suitable for keeping the rain out of his eyes. Being mostly invisible sadly did not render him incorporeal. At length, he continued, “When you return to Greece, will you take his ashes back?”

“No. They’ll be added to Patroclus’s urn and reburied here on the shore,” he answered softly.

“That was his…?”

“His beloved, yes.”

Aziraphale had nothing more to say to that. Love between two men was not sinful. But this was the first time he had observed this level of devotion from humans. The mingling of their earthly atoms until they were no longer two separate parts but one being. Dust sifted in between each other’s dust until one was indistinguishable from the other. It bordered on idolatry, anchoring themselves to an earthly companion when they should have looked to joining with God. He supposed it should be expected of pagans. Then again, perhaps being made of love did not necessarily qualify him to be an expert.

* * *

Aziraphale wasn’t used to running. His corporation wasn’t in tippy top shape for any sort of athleticism. Blessedly, he didn’t need to breathe, but the exertion remained uncomfortable. As he careened down the alley, only the rough soles of his solid boots keeping him from falling face first into a puddle, he swore he’d never do this again if he could help it.

He came to an intersection and paused before stepping out of the protective shadow of the close-set buildings. Footsteps slapped down the wet stone of the intersecting street. Aziraphale threw himself flat against the wall. Were they--Yes! They were coming in his direction.

A dark figure raced past him, and Aziraphale darted after. Two, three paces, and he had the figure by the hood.

“Ngk,” the figure said, as his forward momentum choked him on his cloak clasp. He flailed for a moment to keep his balance until Aziraphale caught him by the tightly upper arm.

“Robin of Loxley,” he said with all the authority he could muster, which, being an angel, was considerable, “you are under arrest by order of the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

To say that the sight of the man who grinned over his shoulder at him did not improve Aziraphale’s evening would have been an understatement. For, it wasn’t a man at all. It was Crowley.

“I think you have the wrong person, angel.”

“The wrong person!” Aziraphale sputtered. He glanced around hastily, then hustled Crowley back into the alley.

The demon went but not without protest. “Ow! Hey, watch it!”

“Hush! What are you even doing here, Crowley?” he hissed. He released his adversary’s arm as soon as they were out of plain view. He was unable to resist the urge to rub his fingers together a few times to rid them of the memory of the Crowley’s warmth.

Taking the hint, Crowley matched his whisper as he answered smugly, “Providing a distraction so the lad can be on his _merry_ way.”

“Of course this rash of thievery would be your doing,” he huffed. Something struck him. “You’re the one they’re calling Scarlett.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Crowley’s eyes gleamed in the meager ambient light like twin pools of molten pools of gold. Like the full autumn moon above, if it weren’t covered by the roiling black clouds of a brewing storm. Something about the quirk of his mouth scraped along the piano wire of Aziraphale’s nerves, and he couldn’t resist turning a jibe back at his opponent. “You know,” he said with a haughty glance over Crowley’s mud-spattered common attire and limp red hair, “the Sheriff’s reports said Scarlett was a silly-headed noble whose only redeeming quality was his sense of dress.”

Crowley ignored the dig, which was just as well since Aziraphale regretted it as soon as the words left his lips. Instead, he latched onto the other part of what he’d said. “You really are working for that bastard?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Yes, well, sort of. I’ve only just returned from the Levant. The _second_ holy war I’ve had to attend in the last century. London is concerned about the string of robberies in this area.”

“‘London is concerned?’” Crowley parroted. “Do you hear yourself?”

On the immaterial plane, an indignant angel can be a terrifying sight to behold. On the material plane, they resemble ruffled roosters. “I am the Principality charged with protecting the well-being and moral health of England. A band of highwaymen preying upon towns and unsuspecting travelers is _my_ concern.”

Crowley took a step back, but if he was intimidated he didn’t show it. He tucked his thumbs into his belt, the very picture of nonchalance. “Hey, now. No need to get your feathers in a twist. I was just trying to figure out if you knew the whole story.”

It was a ploy. Aziraphale knew it was a ploy, but blast him, he was curious. “I did mention I just arrived. My orders from Upstairs were vague on details. ‘Go sort out the home front,’ as it were.”

Crowley rocked a step closer. “Well, if you’ve actually met the Sheriff, then you’d know he’s one of ours.” Aziraphale had met the Sheriff, a man whose soul was as compressed and rotten as coal. At the unimpressed twitch of his brow, Crowley continued, “Not sure why you’d believe a blessed thing from a man like that.”

“And you expect me to take a demon’s word at higher value? Are you honestly trying to tell me that Robin Loxley is not responsible for these robberies?”

He dismissed the question with a lazy wave. “Of course he is. All I’m saying is you don’t know what he’s doing with the money.”

“It doesn’t matter what he’s doing with the money. He’s stealing! From the Church! On your suggestion, I might add.” Crowley had the audacity to look proud of that but infuriatingly did not continue. Eventually, Aziraphale relented, “Fine. What is he doing with the money?”

“He’s giving it back.”

“Giving it back?”

“To the people. The ones your Sheriff stole it from in the first place when he quadrupled the tax rate.”

“Oh dear.”

“Mm-hmm,” Crowley hummed knowingly. He was, however, kind enough to remain silent while Aziraphale worked it out.

Kind. Four and a half millennia, and Aziraphale still wasn’t sure where kindness lay relative to goodness. It was surely preferable to cruelty, but that didn’t answer whether it outweighed sin. After all, Crowley could be gentle and thoughtful when it pleased him, but he was still a demon. The Sheriff was a wicked man, and the Church was not exactly God. If he apprehended Loxley, people here would starve. If he did not…

“That money goes to the war effort. The soldiers need the shipments of food and medicine it funds.”

“You could, I dunno,” Crowley frowned in an exaggerated parody of thought, “end the war.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I would if I could. It’s not as though we have any interest in sustaining a violent conflict.”

Crowley’s annoyance turned genuine. “You sure about that? All those souls, full of righteous vigor, primed to shoot straight up to Heaven?”

“Fighting a holy war does not guarantee entrance to Heaven. They still need to possess a virtuous soul.”

“Lot easier to believe that holier-than-thou mumbo jumbo when it’s being fed to you everyday than it is when you’re starving in a dirty hovel,” Crowley spat.

“I would have thought you’d be happy at the state of things then.” He tried not to sound put out, but he didn’t understand why Crowley was being so argumentative. Demons encouraged poverty and violence to create more incentive for humans to choose Evil. Just as many sinners died in battle as honest men. Zealous speeches only lasted until the first _shamshir_ came swinging at your head. “Your side appears to have the home team advantage.”

Crowley was silent for a moment, his jaw working like he wanted to say two different things at once. Eventually, he managed, “You do know that’s not how this works, right? You do know that?”

At Aziraphale’s bemused expression, he continued, “There’s no profit in tempting poor people. You can’t get ‘em on any of the Seven Deadlies. Those are all about overindulgence. Can’t be gluttonous if you don’t even have enough to fill your stomach. Can’t be greedy if the first thing you’d do if you had two coins to rub together was buy a pair of boots with no holes. The only thing you can get ‘em on is stealing, and then they,” he waved his hand wildly in some vague gesture he probably thought was illustrative, “run off and give it to someone else. The only thing worthwhile about this business with Robin is that the Church is involved.”

Well, that made Aziraphale feel a bit better--that Crowley wasn’t doggedly after Loxley. He seemed like a good chap, after all, even if his methods were suspect and placed his immortal soul in danger of eternal damnation. Knowing Crowley, he’d probably give it up as soon as something more interesting came along or he’d fulfilled the terms of his infernal mission to the letter. In any case, inconveniencing the Church, when it was currently run by men as sinful as they came, was not a great score for the Adversary in the eternal tally of things.

“I suppose your real target is the Sheriff, then?” Aziraphale said with a good-natured smile. Not that he had any other kind. “Tempting him to Wrath by encouraging Loxley’s band to run amok?”

Crowley eyed him speculatively for a moment, then gave him one of his shrugs that were as much with his brow as his shoulders. “If he were, I wouldn’t tell you. It’d make it too easy for you to thwart me,” he teased. “Nah. Men like him do it all by themselves. But I’m still going to write it up as a screaming success.”

Aziraphale let it go with an indulgent wag of his head. Leave it to a demon to seek out ways to be slothful.

It was then that the storm decided to break, spitting fat drops that promised to become a torrent very quickly.

“You could come with me for a drink? Just one, while we wait out the storm,” Crowley offered.

Based on the size of the clouds that had been hanging about all day, the rain would likely last into the early hours of the morning. Still, “There is a tavern a short walk from here that I’ve been meaning to try,” Aziraphale said, letting the demon lead him into the night.

* * *

“You shouldn’t have done the geraniums yesterday. They’re going to be over-watered,” Crowley scolded in the feminine brogue he’d affected recently. As if nature itself approved of his sense of dramatics, a peal of thunder boomed hard enough to rattle the flimsy panes in Aziraphale’s cottage. He struck an impressive silhouette back-lit against the kitchen window by the flash of lightning, a paradox of hard lines and soft curves. For an instant, Aziraphale was reminded that his friend was a demon. How silly to think that he’d forgotten. Millennia of bumping into each other every few centuries cut down now to every few hours. Chaucer had it wrong about familiarity, it seemed.

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll pull through.”

Crowley muttered something under his breath that he didn’t manage to catch. Aziraphale didn't quite understand why he got into such a tizzy over the garden when he’d been the one to insist on nannying the boy. It was simple enough to miracle the plants back to good health if they started to look too wilty, and those miracles were easily written off as necessary to maintain his cover while “thwarting” Crowley. It’d proved unnecessary so far. No matter what Crowley said about mistakes he’d supposedly made, the garden looked as green and vibrant as imaginable.

“I’m more worried about that slice of cheesecake from Cakes and Bubbles left in the fridge going off. Pour us a glass of the 2003 Saint-Bris, will you? I have that _Jellyfish_ book we can finish.”

Crowley obeyed, moving through the dark kitchen with ease. Aziraphale miracled the lamp on the table beside his reading chair into a lit candle. He could have just as easily started up the electricity again or even manifested light from the aether, but they didn’t want any prying questions should it be noticed by the rest of the household. In any case, it was quite nice on occasion to return to the previous way of doing things. Although, Aziraphale thought, as he pulled out the book they’d been reading from that week, that binding techniques had really much improved.

Crowley didn’t read, as such. He didn’t like having to focus on the small lettering for long, he said. He seemed to enjoy it well enough, though, when Aziraphale read selections of the latest piece of literary criticism he’d picked up, aloud like in the old days before the 18th century. It was funny to think of those as the old days. It was only two hundred years ago, but things had changed so quickly since then.

Crowley swished in a moment later, the glide of his stockings against the wood floor hissing softly like a pair of irate serpents. He placed a glass of white on the table at Aziraphale’s elbow then settled into his customary wingback chair with his own. He didn’t lounge as he often did when wearing more relaxed clothing. Unlike Aziraphale, he didn't change out of his adopted persona’s trappings at the end of the day. His only submission to comfort were the sensible pumps left neatly by the door and the wine glass anchored to the arm of the chair by his precisely manicured fingers. He did, however, lean far enough back into his chair that the wings cast a shadow over his face, leaving only a hint of light to play over him from the flickering candle. Aziraphale had learned not to call it “brooding” to his face, but it did not change his opinion on the matter.

What had sent him into a pique, Aziraphale didn’t know, but with Mr. Dowling at home for once, he could guess. He didn’t ask for particulars. They didn’t share the daily details of their jobs--best to maintain some modicum of professional distance, even if they were essentially living in each other’s pockets at present.

Instead, Aziraphale read. It was an interesting little collection of essays, some of which he remembered from the London Review of Books. He found himself so caught up in the text that quite a bit of time passed without his realizing. It was only when he looked up to ask Crowley’s opinion on a point about David Lynch’s prosthetic ontology that he noticed his friend had fallen asleep in his chair  [ 1 ] .

Aziraphale stood, set his book aside next to his empty wine glass, and looked at him fondly. “Oh, you poor thing.”

Aziraphale knew his friend slept--his absence during the larger part of the 19th century had not gone unnoticed--but he’d never witnessed more than the lightest doze from which he’d startle the moment Aziraphale asked if he wanted his drink refilled. Now, Crowley’s coiffure was unrepentantly mussed where he’d nuzzled into the crook of the chair back, his glasses sent slipping down his nose. The lines on his face had relaxed, making him look younger in a way he never actually had been. The curious vulnerability of it sent a little, fizzing bubble rising through Aziraphale’s core to the very tips of his fingers. He wanted, frantically, to protect him. To somehow prolong and preserve this moment.

A gentle rumble of thunder disturbed the silence, shocking Aziraphale back to his senses.

“Well,” he whispered, in part to steady himself. “There’s no sense in waking you only to shoo you into that mess.”

He grabbed the comfortably worn tartan blanket he kept draped on the back of his armchair. Gently, he tucked it around Crowley’s shoulders. After a moment of hesitation, he slipped the demon’s glasses off, grateful for all his practice at sleight of hand, and placed them on the table where he could find them in the morning. Crowley didn’t seem to notice his interference, only nuzzled closer into his chair with a sleepy grumble.

With one last sentimental smile, he blew out the candle. “Sleep well, my dear.”

* * *

Crowley stopped the car at a haphazard angle to the curb that Aziraphale was fairly certain was not entirely legal. They were running late for dinner. He had nagged and pestered until Crowley begrudgingly agreed to obey a handful of traffic laws at the least, and the rainstorm that had been present all evening did not help traffic.

Aziraphale hated being tardy for anything, least of all dinner reservations, but he’d been putting off this conversation for long enough. If he waited another evening, he feared, he would never work up the nerve to get on with it.

“Do you mind if we sit here for a bit before we go inside?”

Crowley paused with his hand on the door and shot him a look that said he was being ridiculous. “Are you sure? Our reservation is in,” he checked his ostentatious watch du jour, “one minute ago.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll hold the table,” Aziraphale said with the air of someone who had made certain this was the case. “This will only take a moment, I think.”

Crowley turned toward him more fully, bracing his elbows across the back of his seat and the wheel, giving Aziraphale his full attention.

Aziraphale had thought about this at length in the weeks since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. He’d scripted what he wanted to say, rehearsed it over and over again. Still, he struggled to get the words out.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, “for taking so long to catch up.”

Crowley didn’t answer, but his frown and singular quirked eyebrow urged Aziraphale to continue.

“I wish it could have been like this from the start--the two of us on our own side. But I had too many rules and expectations I had to let go of first,” he explained. “I want to thank you for being so patient.”

Crowley squirmed a bit in his seat, his knee knocking absently against the steering wheel. Aziraphale could almost hear his instinctive protest at the expression of gratitude. Finally, he canted his head to the side dismissively and said with a wry twist of his lips that was not quite a smile, “Doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

Aziraphale couldn't help the small, fond smile that turned the corners of his own mouth. “No, I suppose not.”

It reminded Aziraphale of another time they had sat here, the two of them, with the weight of words said and unsaid stretching the air taut. He wondered if Crowley thought about it now, too. Then again, they’d been here a hundred thousand times before. Once, it had looked like the precipice of the unknown, a height Aziraphale feared the bottom of if he chose to fling himself from it. Now, he could see, it was the most familiar thing in the world. Even when this moment was broken, they’d find their way back here, just the same. They always did.

It was Crowley who couldn’t stand the stillness.

He dove between the seats to fish an umbrella from the back floorboard. “Hold--Stay there. I’ll come ‘round to your side.”

He clambered out, quickly snapping the umbrella open to avoid getting soaked, and closed his door with a loving touch. Aziraphale took the moment to watch him cross in front of the hood through the smear of rain water on the windshield. He opened the passenger door, black umbrella extended to protect Aziraphale from the downpour with little concern for the drops falling on his own shoulder. Aziraphale grinned up at him and stepped into the shelter Crowley provided.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Aziraphale had never seen a David Lynch film. Crowley had once watched Blue Velvet based on the title and deeply regretted it. [return to text]
> 
> -
> 
> The book they're reading is Tom McCarthy's _Typewriters, Bombs, Jellyfish_.


End file.
